


Old Soldiers

by cjwritergal



Category: Fullmetal Alchemist, Fullmetal Alchemist: Brotherhood & Manga
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-07-22
Updated: 2011-07-22
Packaged: 2018-01-13 10:25:09
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,147
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1222831
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cjwritergal/pseuds/cjwritergal
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"They don't know what its like to have a graveyard as a friend!" Post Promised-Day, but no spoilers.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Old Soldiers

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this for the drabble forum at fmaclubhouse. We are supposed to listen to a song and write a one shot during it, and this is what I came up with. The character in this is left ambiguous on purpose. I used a few lines from the song for dialogue, and if you want to, it might make the story better to listen to the song while you read it. :)
> 
> Enjoy!
> 
> Song: Talking Old Soldiers, Elton John

* * *

He sat at the farthest end of the bar, mostly in shadow. He'd been coming in most nights, for all the three years the bartender had been there. Sometimes the man would smile, and look around, but most of the time he did not smile. He paid for his drinks, and left quietly.

People whispered about him.

_Been in the war, that one. Why, all the wars. No wonder then. No wonder he doesn't talk, look at those scars… he lives alone._

_He's crazy. Talks about immortal monsters. Has fits and nightmares. Heard he attacked some people once._

_Still, though. A shame._

_Yeah, he was a soldier once. It's a shame he's so nuts now._

He wore a ring on his third finger. It was tiny, with no stone, and sometimes the man would twist it around his finger almost absently.

The bartender heard a lot of gossip in his time. The bar was popular, and people liked to talk, especially with some drinks down their gullet.

Sometimes, he wished they would shut up.

The bartender knew the man's body language by now, and when he was getting ready to leave. The last drink would go slowly until only a few drops were left; those he would down instantly, and then he would pay and leave.

The man set down his glass, and began to stand.

The bartender didn't know what made his mouth open. "Hey, can I get you another drink? On the house."

The man simply looked at him for a moment, and then nodded, and sat down. "That's kind of you," he said, and his voice somehow wasn't withered like the rest of him.

The bartender shrugged. "You served the country, it's the least I can do."

"Hn." The man slid his glass along the bar. "I see. You want to talk to the crazy old soldier."

The bartender nearly dropped the glass.

The man smiled, but there was no happiness in it. "I know what they say, son. Not quite deaf yet."

"Or crazy." Again, the words slipped out, and for a distraction the bartender slid the full glass back.

The man raised his eyebrows, and chuckled to himself. "That was fast. I may not be foaming at the mouth, but…" His fingers tightened on his glass, and the bartender saw a soldier's strength in the wrinkled hands. The man relaxed, and shrugged. "I've seen enough. More than enough. I don't know if I'm crazy. And if you don't know if you're sane…well, what does that make you?"

The bartender didn't know what to say, but the man hadn't seemed to need an answer, either.

People were staring, whispering, and trying to glance at them without really looking.

"People talking about something doesn't make it true," The bartender began, not quite sure what he was trying to say.

The man shrugged again, and then pointed to a corner of the bar, at the opposite end. "Over there. That's where we used to sit every day. They don't talk about that, don't remember." His ring glinted in the light, and he drew back his hand slowly. "I have my memories. We sat there, oh, years ago, and I'd drink three times the beer that I can drink today…" He smiled again, just a little, and for a moment it seemed true, but then it was lost in bitterness again. "They'll keep talking." He let out a deep breath. His arm was shaking, fingers tight around the glass again. "Talk about what they don't understand. Crazy, nightmares,  _poor old soldier_ …" The words were almost indistinguishable.

The whispering seemed to swell, seemed to pulse with his shaking hands.

"Sir," the bartender reached for the glass. "Sir-"

"They don't know what its like to have a graveyard as a friend!" The man threw the glass; it hit the wall behind the bartender, shattering, pieces skittering across the floor.

The whispers quieted.

The man's shoulders heaved, each breath heavy, tears in his eyes. "That's where they are, boy. All of them." The tears leaked over, and he sank slowly back down into his seat, elbow bent on the bar, head resting in his shaking palm. "All of them…no more pictures or fights, no more drinking and laughing…she's dead. They're dead. Long dead." He gave a bitter laugh. "Don't think I'll ever…get friends like that again…"

The bartender wanted to ask about them, wanted to hear their names and stories, thought that perhaps that was what the man needed. Because to all the other people, his loved ones weren't just dead; they were  _gone_.

But before he could open his mouth, the man was standing again. "Sorry about the glass." His eyes were still wet. "Thank you for the drink." He laughed in his bittersweet way. The people were still watching him now, like they were waiting for water to break open a dam. "There I go, being the crazy old soldier again." He slid his money on the counter. "Tomorrow when I come in, I'll pay for the glass. Not tonight, I…"

"No," The bartender's lips barely moved, watching the old man. He was wrinkled and stooped, but there was a look about him, like that of a young man not only wounded, but crippled. All the power of his youth, and powerless to fix his injuries. "Don't worry about it."

The man nodded once. "Tomorrow, then." He turned for the door. The people were still watching him, and he hoped that they, for just one second, could try to understand what he could barely grasp; glimpse and imagine for a moment the horror, the guilt, the loneliness…That they would be able to extend their hearts to him, try to smooth over the hurt, though it was sensitive to the touch.

Every night the man came in. No family. Retired. Old and weary. A man that liked to stare at empty corners and lights, filling them up with images of years past, of people long dead.

"Wait!" The bartender knew his words to be foolish, knew they would be no help, and yet…

The man stopped, and looked back. There were fresh, wet, lines on his cheeks.

"Ignore them," The bartender said quietly. "You have your memories."

For a moment, the man's face crumpled, because that was all he actually had; memories of things he could never know again, memories that shone brighter than any sun, and killed him more surely than a knife in his heart. Memories that helped him smile, let him laugh and live. Memories that made him cry, and scream, and beg.

It was all that he had.

The man seemed to pull himself together, and nodded stiffly. Then he turned and opened the door, the bell chiming loudly in the sudden silence, like something had sucked all the sound from the room.

The door swung shut behind him.


End file.
